Sansa shook her sleeve down over the purple fingerprints marring her skin. She had been clumsy the other day, tripping when she went to walk down the stairs. She had fallen into Joffrey, and his embarrassment at the tittering of the maids caused him to dig his fingers painfully into her arm.

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace," she had whispered to him with a trembling smile.

To her horror, it hadn't lifted the ugly expression on his face.

"Proper ladies aren't clumsy," he had snapped at her.

He had smiled again when he saw her at dinner, a gallant prince once more. But Sansa knew better now than to hold her breath.

Some things couldn't be changed.

She stepped gingerly into the throne room. The entire court had been summoned for Joffrey's first official proclamations as King. The walls had been stripped bare of the the hunting tapestries that Robert had loved so much, and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap.

Sansa slipped into the crowd, watching the lords and ladies mill about restlessly. Stannis had moved quickly after Robert's death, sending ravens to every great house in the realm declaring himself the true King of the Seven Kingdoms, and denouncing Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen to be bastards born of incest. Joffrey's rage had been fearful when he heard of what his uncle had done.

In the south, she sure Renly was moving his pieces into place. He would have already begun to gather his armies, ignoring his brother's call for fealty. Margaery would be at his side as well, her handmaidens working furiously on her maiden cloak of golden roses.

Tyrion sat at the long council table looking stiff and peeved, drumming his fingers erratically on the papers in front of him. Beside him, Pycelle seemed to have fallen asleep, his hands clasped atop his long beard. Varys fluttered into the hall smiling in that secret way of his. The Spider's feet were soundless on the stone.

A herald's voice rang out. "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm."

Barristan Selmy led the way into the hall. Cersei looked as if her golden slippers scarcely brushed the ground as she floated in on Jaime's arm. Boros Blount walked beside Joffrey, who took the steps two at a time up to be seated on the Iron Throne. Cersei seated herself at the council table, a lovely smile on her painted lips.

When Joffrey turned to look out over the hall, his eyes caught Sansa's. He smiled and spoke. "It is a king's duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees."

Pycelle shook himself awake and clambered to his feet. He was clad in a magnificent robe of thick red velvet, with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings. From a drooping sleeve, heavy with gilded scrollwork, he drew a parchment, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of king and council to present themselves and swear their fealty to Joffrey. Failing that, they would be adjudged traitors, their lands and titles forfeit to the throne.

When he was done, Pycelle rolled up the list, tucked it up his left sleeve, and pulled another parchment from his right. He cleared his throat and resumed. "In the place of Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

"In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

Sansa heard a soft murmuring from the lords and ladies around her, but it was quickly stilled. Pycelle continued.

"It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, be at once raised to the rank of lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council in the place of the traitor Renly Baratheon, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

Sansa watched in disgust as Janos Slynt strutted towards the council table.

She stared hard at Janos Slynt's ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ilyn Payne to behead. She wished she could hurt him, wished that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head.

That day, a little voice inside her had whispered, there are no heroes.

But now, she imagined Jon throwing him down and taking his head. That brought a smile to her face.

When he finally took his place, Pycelle resumed. "Lastly, in these times of treason and turmoil, with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance . . . " He looked to the queen.

Cersei stood. "Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth."

Sansa's lips parted in horror. She had forgotten the shame of Ser Barristan, but remembered it well now.

Ser Barristan had been standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, as still as any statue, but now he went to one knee and bowed his head. "Your Grace, I am yours to command."

"Rise, Ser Barristan," Cersei said. "You may remove your helm."

"My lady?" Standing, the old knight took off his high white helm, though he did not seem to understand why.

"You have served the realm long and faithfully, good ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of king and council that you lay down your heavy burden."

"My . . . burden? I fear I . . . I do not . . . "

Janos Slynt spoke cruelly and bluntly. "Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

Ser Barristan seemed to shrink at his words. "Your Grace," he said at last. "The Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust."

"Whose death, Ser Barristan?" The queen's voice was soft as silk, but her words carried the whole length of the hall. "Yours, or your king's?"

"You let my father die," Joffrey said accusingly from atop the Iron Throne. "You're too old to protect anybody."

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, still bewildered. "I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up all claim to my ancestral keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place, I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows . . . to ward the king with all my strength . . . to give my blood for his . . . I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne . . . beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys, and his father Jaehaerys before him . . . three kings . . .

"Three Kings, all three dead, Ser Barristan," said Tyrion with a cruel smile. "Quite the record."

He thinks to send Ser Barristan straight to his Queen.

"Your time is done," Cersei Lannister announced. "Joffrey requires men around him who are young and strong. The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as the Lord Commander of Sworn Brothers of the White Swords."

"The Kingslayer," Ser Barristan said. He gave Jaime a look of utter contempt. "The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend."

Jaime smiled lazily at him, as if in jest, but Cersei reared forward. "Have a care for your words, Ser," she warned. "You are speaking of our beloved brother, your king's own blood."

Lord Varys spoke, his words slick with false sympathy. "We are not unmindful of your service, good ser. Lord Tywin Lannister has generously agreed to grant you a handsome tract of land north of Lannisport, beside the sea, with gold and men sufficient to build you a stout keep, and servants to see to your every need."

Ser Barristan looked up sharply. "A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords . . . but I spit upon your pity." He reached up and undid the clasps that held his cloak in place, and the heavy white garment slithered from his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor. His helmet dropped with a clang. "I am a knight," he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. "I shall die a knight."

"Come now, Ser," Tyrion called out. "I'll even throw in a whore or two with the lot. On the Crown's coin of course. I'm sure they'll be quite gentle with a man of your age and… inexperience."

The hall filled with laughter, the loudest it seemed, from the men who had been his brothers until a moment ago. Ser Barristan stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak. Finally he drew his sword.

There was a gasp throughout the hall. Boros and Moore stepped forward as if to confront him, but Ser Barristan froze them in place with a look that dripped contempt. "Have no fear, sers, your king is safe . . . no thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easy as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer, not a one of you is fit to wear the white." He flung his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne. "Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne."

He took the long way out, his steps ringing loud against the floor and echoing off the bare stone walls. Lords and ladies parted to let him pass. Not until the pages had closed the great oak-and-bronze doors behind him did Sansa hear sounds again: soft voices, uneasy stirrings, the shuffle of papers from the council table.

"He called me boy," Joffrey said peevishly. "He talked about my uncle Stannis too."

"Idle talk," said Varys. "Without meaning . . . "

"He could be making plots with my uncle. I want him seized and questioned." No one moved. Joffrey raised his voice. "I said, I want him seized!"

Janos Slynt rose from the council table. "My gold cloaks will see to it, Your Grace."

"Good," said Joffrey.

"The King and council have also determined that two men be selected to join the Kingsguard," said Cersei after the commotion had settled. "The first, is Ser Balon Swann."

Sansa watched as the young knight blanched in surprise. "Your Grace," he called to Joffrey over the balcony. "You do me a great honor."

"Rise, Ser Balon, and pay fealty to your King," Cersei instructed him. With only the faintest touch of hesitation, Ser Balon descended to stand before Joffrey, and then took to one knee.

"Rise," Joffrey ordered when the man had said his words. "And take your rightful place at my side." Ser Balon joined the other members of the Kingsguard, looking strange and naked next to the men in their shining white armor.

"Finally," said Cersei. "There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane."

"How do you like that, dog?" Joffrey asked, leaning forward.

The Hound considered for a long moment.

"Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who'd care if I did?" The burned side of his mouth twisted. "But I warn you, I'll say no knight's vows."

"The Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard have always been knights," Boros said firmly.

"Until now," the Hound said in his deep rasp, and Boros fell silent.

Joffrey's herald moved forward. "If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence."

No one spoke. Despite the space of so many years, Sansa was flung back to that frightened, trembling child who had gathered her courage and stood before the throne to beg for her father's life.

"The Lady Sansa of House Stark!"

"Do you have some business for the king and council, Sansa" Cersei had asked, her words as innocent and light as a kiss.

"I do," Sansa had answered, so sure that they would listen. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King."

"Mercy," Sansa whispered softly. Though for who she asked, she could not say.

Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne as silence settled upon the hall. "Court is dismissed," he announced at last, and stood.

All at once the crowd began to chatter and whisper amongst themselves. They began to filter out, certainly to pass words better said behind closed doors. Sansa lingered, watching the council speak in low voices.

Her face prickled, and goosebumps rose on her skin. She looked up, certain that someone was watching her. Her eyes drifted over the faces, noting each of them as she did. But fear almost choked her when she locked eyes with Ilyn Payne. His pale, dead eyes bored into hers, unflinching in their regard. Dread trickled down her spine, but she was unable to look away. Just as she felt brave enough to turn away, she saw him raise his hand and brush his nose with his thumb.

Alright?

The motion stopped her cold. When she didn't react, he did it again. He tilted his head, as if asking a question.

Alright?

Shakily, she lifted her hand to play with the hair tucked behind her ear.

Fine.

Sansa could have sworn a trace of a smile touched his gruesome mouth when she did. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she felt wildly delighted and terribly sickened all at once.

Desperate to move closer, she hurried down to the gallery. She flicked her eyes up to check as she approached the throne. He was still watching her.

"Lady Sansa!"

Sansa whipped around to see one of Cersei's maids scurrying towards her. The woman dropped a slight curtsy, the line of her mouth taut. "Her Majesty would like you to join her in the royal chambers at once."

"Yes," said Sansa. "Yes. Of course." The words tasted like blood in her mouth.

The maid clucked her tongue impatiently when Sansa did not move to leave. She turned to look once more at Ilyn Payne, but he had vanished.


Joffrey lounging on a chaise when Sansa passed through to attend to Cersei.

"My King," she said. Her eyes tracked the loose set of his shoulders, the softness in his features. He was safe for now. She curtsied low.

He smiled at her, pleased, and offered his hands hung heavy with ugly rings. Sansa kissed them.

"I have a surprise for my lady," he announced grandly.

Sansa's heart stuttered nervously. She ignored it, and draped herself delicately at his feet.

She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

"For me, Your Grace?"

"I have ordered a feast thrown in my honor tonight," Joffrey announced. "All of my loyal subjects shall attend and will witness the announcement of our betrothal."

"How wonderful," said Sansa forcing a beaming smile.

"You shouldn't be crying all the time," Joffrey sneered. "You're more pretty when you smile and laugh. Wipe off the blood you're all messy"

"I am honored by your kindness, My King," said Sansa with a breathy giggle of delight.

He leaned forward, and toyed with the golden pendant around her neck. "I've instructed Mother to find you something proper to wear. You're to be my Queen someday, and you must be dressed accordingly. I want everyone to look upon you tonight at my side."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa said. "Nothing in the world would make me happier."

He tugged sharply on the pendant, so that she was forced to bring her head towards him. Then Joffrey grinned, and dropped it so the lion thudded against her chest.


Sansa fought to keep her features placid and unassuming as Cersei watched her dress. The gown was layer after layer of pink silk, pale as the underside of a rose. A thousand tiny pearls had been sewn around the collar and the hem. More pearls had been painstaking sewn into the braids that had been piled high atop her head.

Cersei reached forward and held her chin when they had finished. The Queen examined her, and nodded after a moment. Sansa wished she had chosen a darker color. She feared that the trickle of cold sweat down her neck would noticeably stain the silk.

"Your Grace," Sansa interjected when she saw the maids lay out Cersei's own dress on the bed. "Might I retire to my chambers before the banquet?" She placed a hand on her chest. "I think I should rest, my head feels quite heavy from all of this excitement."

"Of course, little dove," said Cersei, reaching out to tuck a curl behind Sansa's ear. "But you must take care not to muss your dress or your hair. The King would be most displeased to see you disheveled."

"You truly are a stupid girl aren't you? My mother says so."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa touched the bodice of the dress lightly. "I am honored by the King's love. I want only to please him."

"She worries about our children, whether they'll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself. I'll get you with child as soon as you're able. If the first one is stupid, I'll chop your head off and find a smarter wife."

Cersei glanced over her as if she were particularly pleasing pet. "Quite so, little dove."

A maid escorted Sansa to her chambers in the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast. Sansa begged for solitude, promising that she would not put a single wrinkle in the gown.

When she was alone she was paralyzed for a moment. How many endless days and night she'd languished here, staining the silk of her bedspread with blood and tears?

Then it passed, and she flung her chest of drawers open to retrieve her needles and thread. She thrust them deep into her pockets with a few pieces of jewelry and silver stags. She found her brush and placed that in dress too with several ribbons.

Quickly, she hiked up her gown and yanked on warmer stockings. She hesitated over shoes. Cersei had presented her with a delicate pair of pink slippers that matched the dress. Her boots were hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe…

The dress was long enough to sweep the floor. Sansa slipped her feet into the boots, and laced them tightly. The slippers she shoved between the mattress and the bed. She thought longingly of the traveling cloak that still lay in the bottom her chest, but she would not dare bring it

Finally, she unlaced the stays that held the side of the mattress together. From within, she withdrew Jon's letter and tucked it tightly within her shift.

She straightened the bed, and closed the chest. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the window and let the sea breeze wash over her. It smelled like salt and brine, but it the cool kiss of its touch reminded her of standing on the ramparts of Winterfell.

The maids found her like that. They took her arms, and Sansa thought of how Arya moved when she sparred, like she was gliding over water. She tried to mimic her sister's light steps, and offered a prayer to the Mother that her boots would not show beneath the sway of her dress.

The absence of those who had already fled the court following Robert's death was even more apparent when they stepped into the Great Hall. Thankfully did not seem to notice or care as he led Sansa to the High Table.

She searched the crowd. Though there were many guards stationed along the wall, she did not see Ilyn Payne. The idea that she had been mistaken nagged insistently in her head, but she pushed the thoughts away.

Joffrey stood, raising his arms to quiet the crowd. His golden crown of rubies and black diamonds glittered in the torchlight. He smiled smugly as silence fell immediately.

Joffrey's herald cleared his throat. "His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms is pleased to present Lady Sansa Stark, his intended betrothed, and future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

The hall broke into applause, and Joffrey offered a hand to Sansa. "Rise, my lady," he told her grandly. "The people wish to look upon their future queen."

Sansa took his hand, and smiled out at the lords and ladies.

"A gift for my Queen!" Joffrey called out, and a steward hurried forward. In his hands, a gold tiara rested on a red velvet pillow. The steward dropped to his knees, and Joffrey took the ornament. He held it high to show the crowd, and they shouted in approval.

"Bow your head, my lady," Joffrey told her. Sansa did as he asked, conscious of the way the movement exposed her unprotected neck. He placed the tiara on the mass of braids that adorned her head. There were more applause, and Joffrey called for the feast to commence in honor of his betrothal.

Although her stomach recoiled at the thought, Sansa forced herself to eat. It would do no good to be running on an empty stomach. Joffrey's face soon became red with wine, and he called for fools to entertain them.

The crowd roared as the dancing fools were brought out. Soon lords and ladies joined them on the floor, twirling like a flock of birds to the jaunty southern songs.

Sansa shivered with nervous energy. "Your Grace," she said, turning to Joffrey. "Would you like to dance?"

Joffrey blinked at her irritably, his eyes red and bleary. He waved her off, and Sansa nodded gratefully. She slipped from the High Table and joined the swirling crowd.

She was caught by Jalabhar Xho, who spun her in dizzying circles as he explained that he was confident that King Joffrey would look favorably on his quest to regain the Summer Isles.

He passed her to Ser Dontos who tried to make her smile with silly jokes, but she could not look upon his face without seeing it open-mouthed in death.

Just as Horas Redwyne took her hand and placed it on his shoulder, she caught sight of Ilyn Payne standing against the wall. His face was grim in the low light, but Sansa thought his ugly features seemed to soften when she caught his eye.

She glanced at the High Table. Joffrey was laughing at the antics of the fool, and Cersei was watching him and smiling. Myrcella had dragged a sleepy Tommen out to dance, and they were spinning in front of the dessert table.

Sansa sent a silent prayer towards them. Forgive me. She excused herself just as the younger Redwyne twin was reaching for her, and cut through the crowd.

She slipped through the double doors. The Lannister guards standing on either side jerked to attention when she crossed the doorway. They mumbled at her as she passed, and she smelled the stink of ale wafting from them.

Sansa crept slowly through the hall, and leaned down, looking at the empty courtyard, silent as the grave. The torches were burning low, and Sansa shivered in the thin silk of the gown.

"Cold?"

Sansa restrained her shriek and whipped around to see her sister grinning at her. Arya was dressed in filthy grey chainmail over a boiled leather coat that was so overly large that it swamped her. Despite this, Sansa threw herself into Arya's arms, and Arya hugged her tightly.

"Nervous," Sansa gasped out, fearful if she said anything else she would begin to weep. She cupped Arya's cheek, and Arya stuck her tongue out teasingly.

"Want to go home?" Arya asked her.

Sansa nodded fervently.

"Come," said Arya, taking Sansa's hand. She bit her lip, and eyed Sansa critically. "You've picked an absolutely dreadful dress to run away in."

Sansa was not in the frame of mind to snipe back. "Joffrey announced our betrothal tonight."

Arya bared her teeth in a terrifying smile. "Perhaps he'll have a stroke when he finds you gone."

"How are we leaving?" Sansa whispered. "Through the sewers?"

Arya shook her head. "I know of a faster way."


Arya had expected somewhat of a fuss from Sansa when Arya had instructed her to crawl into the burlap sack that Arya was carrying over her shoulder. Instead her sister had done as she asked without a second thought, and Arya had slipped faces once more.

Arya kept one arm wrapped tightly around Sansa's legs as she walked through the quiet halls of the Red Keep. The few servants she saw fled the moment that they caught sight of her face. Ilyn Payne was not a man to be questioned. Perhaps they feared being dragged away one day in a sack across his shoulder.

The stable boy squeaked in terror when Arya approached him and grunted a warning. It was a horrible sound, and Arya fought not to flinch away from herself. The boy scrambled to fetch a saddle, and ran when Arya waved him away.

Carefully, she placed Sansa down in the hay, and opened the sack so that she could breath. Her sister's face was scarlet from being upside down, and her hair was coming loose.

"Fine," croaked Sansa.

Arya saddled a horse quickly, and patted it to calm the creature even as it edge away from her in fear. Arya hoisted Sansa over the horse, and swung up behind her. She placed a hand on Sansa's back to check in and heard a muffled response.

The gold cloaks that guarded the gates of the Red Keep pulled them open immediately when Arya growled in their direction. Their unease was writ plain on their face as they glanced at Sansa's still body.

Arya took them through the streets, riding past the Sept of Baelor and the Hall of Alchemists. The Gate of the Gods was swung open at Arya's command, and they sped through. Faster and faster Arya rode, Aegon's high hill becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

She crossed off the Kingsroad and plunged deeper into the forest. When they were hidden in the trees, she dismounted, and pulled Sansa from the horse.

Sansa coughed and rubbed her stomach as she crawled from the bag. All of her lovely braids had come undone, pearls falling to the ground. Her gold tiara hung askew, barely clinging to her head.

Arya pulled Ilyn Payne's face from hers, and stuffed it into the bag she carried. The air suddenly smelled so much fresher and sweeter. She threw her head back and breathed deeply in relief.

Sansa started to giggle where she lay on the ground, a hysterical sound that startled some sparrows out of the bush. Arya crawled over to her, and Sansa laughed harder. Tears squeezed out her sister's eyes, and spilled down her flushed cheeks.

"What?" asked Arya, baffled. "What is it?"

Sansa hiccuped. "I'm so happy," she gasped. "I'm so happy." She pulled Arya down, and they huddled there on the ground, laughing and crying.

"We're not far from Nymeria," Arya said finally. She tugged at Sansa's hands, helping her to her feet.

It had begun to rain lightly as they rode deeper into the woods. Nymeria ran to them happily when they rode up, and the horses greeted each other with soft whinnies.

Arya pulled her bags from the tree where she had hidden them, and withdrew clothes. She gratefully stripped out of Ilyn Payne's clothes, and handed Sansa a warmer dress. Sansa fumbled with the silk monstrosity that she was swathed in.

"Can I cut it?"

Sansa paused. "Yes," she said. "Cut it."

Arya gleefully cut through the lacings of the dress, and helped Sansa out of it. Sansa sighed in she pulled the warmer dress on.

Arya tossed Ilyn Payne's chainmail to the side, and buried the blade of his greatsword in the mud. Sansa took the golden lion pendant from around her neck, and the tiara from her head, and hung them on the hilt of the sword.

They mounted their horses, and Nymeria took her place at the head, her ears pricked in anticipation.

"Find Lady," Arya told her wolf. "We're going home."

Nymeria plunged into the brush, and Arya ordered the horses forward. She looked back at Sansa. Her sister had her face tilted up, her features calm and serene. Raindrops trickled down her cheeks.

"What are you thinking of?" Arya asked.

Sansa opened her eyes dreamily, and smiled. "The rain. If I close my eyes… it almost feels like snow."